


We

by nephiele



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:26:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7005118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nephiele/pseuds/nephiele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She could only guess how this moment came to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We

Chiara buried her dear sister in true Etruscan fashion, or as much as she could offer. Unlike her male counterpart, Valentina had maintained a certain air of class to her, an ancient poise that hinted towards her upbringing. True, she had been older than that boy Veneziano, having taken the form of a young woman by the time the Romans had established their republic, but perhaps this had led to her early maturity. Chiara hadn’t known her sister as a child; some things still remained a mystery. Nevertheless, she thought that perhaps Valentina could rest privately, away from the troubles of daily life.

The site was a ways outside of Volterra, nestled among the rolling hills of the countryside. Chiara chose it out of familiarity, having visited the village with Valentina a long time ago. She rode out along the main road for a while, before deviating from the path. Eventually, Chiara and her horse came upon a group of hills, one which happened to give way to a small cave. Few trees populated the area, but Valentina had preferred the open sky over anything, and so Chiara got to work. Of course, back then there were groups of workers all digging together, but she was a strong woman. Tools were easy to acquire, given the right amount of words and persuasion, and the spring air was cool on her tanned skin. 

She sang as she worked. Songs from the new radio, older tunes, and ancient melodies left her lips, her heavy tone leading to bright arias and chants. She couldn’t provide her sister with a parade or celebration or games, as tradition dictated, but she was determined to showcase something of worth: her heart. 

 

Days slowly edged into weeks, and the spring season was fresh and warm.

 

 

Eventually a month had passed. 

 

 

 

 

 

Two months. Summer had erupted in fire, and Chiara sweated and coughed, her muscles aching against the sun as she pulled and pushed, her motions becoming repetitive, draining. The days were longer. The sun rose higher. She persevered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three. The heat is unbearable, and temperatures continue to increase with no end in sight. The War is declared over. Sweat dribbles down her chin, disappearing as it passes along her neck and between her heaving breasts. 

 

As she worked and slaved over forming the rooms and shaping the walls, carving the deep arches with a delicate care, the Sicilian woman remembered and reflected with a fond heart the tales of old times. The myths of her sister’s people, ancient stories that Valentina would convey with a voice like the sun.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s blistering hot when Chiara bobs her hair: a rebellion against tradition, the dark locks vanishing with the rush of a shallow river. The mess of curls rests against her ears and chin, frayed at the edges. Outside of work, her trousers are a common sight in the village, with a men’s shirt to match. Disgraceful, the older women say. Among the younger fillies, the idea becomes more and more common, albeit gradually. 

 

 

 

 

The overall formation was small, but encompassed a short tunnel leading to a single room, hidden deep inside the hill. Chiara had painted frescos upon the walls, in the style of old. On surrounding walls, vivid reds and earthy browns gave shape to animals: horses and birds, sheep and cattle. Soft indigos and whites paved a river, carving through the pastures and rocks with ease. She painted wheat and vines, and the farmers too. Each with a precise care, bordered with shapes and figures that curved every which way, stretching as far as possible. She painted the tunnel in an echo of the hills and pastures surrounding the location, rolling and resonating in heavy greens and easy yellows. 

 

 

... 

 

 

She finishes in September. 

 

 

... 

 

 

Chiara lights incense of myrrh, scattering candles throughout the room. It is dark but cool, a welcome feeling. Valentina is dressed in soft white, her long hair wrapped and covered in a veil. Surrounding her body is asphodel, white and pure, with rosemary in between. Her hands are laced together, holding two stalks of gladiolas. Several vases of the same flower decorate the room, full and white and bursting from their pots. The smoke trails from the incense wash over the two sisters, like soft hands caressing their skin. The sounds of night echo throughout the tomb. Crickets are chirping brightly and echoing in the passageway. Moths swirl around the flames of the candles, occasionally lighting themselves aflame. 

 

They rain in ashes. 

 

Chiara herself is donned in dark material, a lacy dress that covers her knees, complete with a black shawl around her shoulders. Her solemn eyes encompass the movement of the shadows across the still form of her sister, entranced. Her lips are painted red; her eyes are bathed in kohl.

 

 

 

 

Her lips part, and her soul chants in fire.

**Author's Note:**

> the formatting is so wack like... it looked so good in word lol  
> anyway i enjoy writing about these particular interpretations of fem!South Italy/Chiara. i see her as a strong woman, with an intimidating presence. 
> 
> obviously this hasn't been edited but i'm slowly improving. which is nice lol


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